


Imagine a story, not of good against evil, but of need against need against need

by Nina36



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode: s06e20 The Man Who Would Be King, M/M, Oneshot, episode coda, possessive!Sam!, season 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-31 09:19:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1029980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nina36/pseuds/Nina36
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had heard everything: the words Castiel and Dean had exchanged, the desperation in Dean’s voice, the edge in Castiel’s, his slip up…<br/>I’m doing this for  you…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imagine a story, not of good against evil, but of need against need against need

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: Title taken from a Richard Siken’s poem:  
> “Imagine that the world is made out of love. Now imagine that it isn’t. Imagine a story where everything goes wrong, where everyone has their back against the wall, where everyone is in pain and acting selfishly because if they don’t, they’ll die. Imagine a story, not of good against evil, but of need against need against need, where everyone is at cross-purposes and everyone is to blame.”   
> ― Richard Siken

 

  Sam was awake when Dean crept into the guest room. Sleep had evaded him, although he felt tired, more than he remembered being since he had woken up in panic room.

_Because_ _of…_

He had heard everything: the words Castiel and Dean had exchanged, the desperation in Dean’s voice, the edge in Castiel’s, his slip up…

_I’m_ _doing this for_ _you…_

His mind racing, replaying the last few days over and over in his mind. It was weird, he had spent most of his life angry…at everything and everyone…hell had eroded his anger, though. The only thing that had mattered to Sam since he had come back had been Dean…and try not to scratch the wall.

Yet he was angry, now. He was angry at everything and everyone…and it was upsetting him how most of his anger was directed at Castiel…and how he had fucked them up.

He had brought him back without his soul…and they were still dealing with the consequences.

He took a deep breath and Dean stopped, next to their beds, frozen on the spot.  Sam tilted his head on a side, meeting Dean’s eyes in the half darkness of the room…there was so much helplessness in Dean’s eyes, that Sam had to move. He  _had_  to do something.

Dean still wasn’t moving, his eyes studying him, impossibly bright and Sam felt the anger like a physical creature inside of him, pulling and gnawing…but he was feeling something else as well…the hair on his arms stood up, all of sudden…and he knew, felt, the presence in the room.

It didn’t often happen, but Sam had noticed that change in him, since he had come back from hell: he knew when there was an angelic presence in the room…not always, of course: or else he’d have spotted  Castiel spying on them before…but it did happen.

He had learned to ignore that feeling, how his skin itched for a moment, the tiny slivers of cold he felt inside himself when it happened, the flashes of Castiel probing inside of him, and how the pain had been blinding…but how his other self hadn’t really been angry about it, just mildly curious.

His arm moved without any input from his brain, grabbing Dean, his fingers curling around his wrist.

Anger…cold…and Dean.

Dean was everywhere: he filled his senses, in a way that after so long, still surprised him. He could breathe him…feel him, everywhere, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be.

_I’m_ _doing this for_ _you…_ **** **_because_ ** _of_ _you._

“Sammy…” Dean said in a low voice, and he could hear the weariness in his voice, how much that long day had taken its toll on him.

Flashes of blue eyes staring at Dean, confusion and love shining in them…wanting what was  _his_  and only  _his_. Spying, prying, shrouding in excuses and something he could never, would never understand.

  There was uncertainty in Dean’s eyes, as Sam tugged at his arm, pulling him toward the bed.

“Bobby…” Dean whispered.

“Want me to call him, Dean?” Sam smirked and had to chuckle when Dean rolled his eyes at him while sitting on the bed.

_Besides we have all the  witnesses_ _I_ _want…_

He thought, his fingers still curled around Dean’s wrists, feeling his brother’s erratic pulse under his fingertips.

“Funny…” Dean said, Sam propped himself on an elbow, watching Dean, he released his hold on Dean’s wrist letting his fingers trail up on his arm, a feather like caress, brushing the naked skin of Dean’s arm just like he knew Dean liked: slow and teasing, enough to cause goosebumps and to awaken the need for more.

They were long past caring, long past pretenses and excuses…there had been too much blood, too much death, too much darkness surrounding them, smothering them, thick molasses that had eroded anything else, leaving just them…and what they had, what they did, what they were together.

He closed his eyes when he felt Dean’s hands in his hair.

Sometimes they fucked…the need to feel each other’s skin, to claim their places in their fucked up world became too overwhelming…when it happened it was hard and fast, sighs swallowed by their hungry kisses; there were scratches, blood and hoarse cries they tried to keep quiet, without ever fully succeeding.

But there were times they both needed that: each other’s touch…the warmth it brought, the certainty that they were together, that in their fucked up world, in all the sea of horrors and blood, they  _still_  had each other, their only safe place, the most dangerous at times and the only one that allowed them both to breathe, to exist and still be human.

 He felt Dean’s breath ghosting against his face, a warm hint of whiskey in it and then Dean’s lips pressed against his, soft and inviting.

His fingers stopped above the mark on Dean’s forearm. Anger...he could feel it, it was burning, hot blue flashes of too adoring gazes and lies told in the name of a love that didn’t belong to  _him._ It never would, not as long as he lived, not as long as he would feel Dean’s soul and heartbeat beating in sync with his.

And if that made him a possessive asshole, so be it.

He kissed Dean back, his hand leaving the mark on  the older man’s arm to go to his nape, to hold him, to claim him, as he licked Dean’s lips with the tip of his tongue, seeking entrance, wanting to taste him…to feel him.

Dean sighed against his lips, granting him access, one hand still in his hair, pulling him closer and closer. They moved without breaking the kiss, years of practice and a  lifetime of moving together, in sync, making their movements effortless, like a well practiced dance and, in a second, he was above Dean,  _his_  Dean, warm and alive, wounded, haunted, exhausted, betrayed…noble, selfless, courageous.

He broke the kiss, scattering soft open mouthed brushes of his lips against Dean's jaws and chin before taking a moment to look at him and it was a sign of how tired Dean was that he didn’t even  crack a joke; he locked gazes with him, a hand rested on his chest, above his heart,  no traces of bravado, for once.

Silence and  _that_ undercurrent, invisible eyes on them, as Dean let a small smile tug at his lips, his hand still on him, as if to make sure he was real, that he was  _his_ Sammy, not the empty shell he had been for over a year. Because of Castiel. 

He wanted to speak, he wanted to say the words, to claim Dean with them as much as he wanted to do with his body.  He could still feel Cas’s presence, that weird undercurrent  that prickled his skin and soul.

“What do you want?” He asked instead. Because in the end Dean was the only thing that mattered. Story of his life, to be consumed by his love for his brother, to be able to really exist only with him and for him. 

Codependent, dangerous, unhealthy...he knew all the words and they didn't mean squat. 

He looked at his brother; usually Dean would roll his eyes at him upon hearing those words, they would bicker perhaps because Sam realized, sex with Dean was also fun…they never stopped being themselves, even when he could feel Dean’s breath ghosting over his skin and they were joined: skin, bones, blood…hearts.  

Dean, though, surprised him - a lifetime spent together and he  _still_  could do that. He felt Dean’s fingertips brushing against his heart, soft and featherlike and then he said, “You…”

Just like that, stated matter of factly; no chickflick moments, no love declarations, just Dean being  _Dean:_ even then, while betrayed and heartsore…and his words hovered over them in the air for a moment, electric and warm around them. 

Dean’s lips covered his, breathing hot whispers against them, words he couldn’t exactly make out, but didn’t really need to. 

Dean’s skin was warm as he kissed it, smiling against his neck when he repeated in a soft whisper, “You,  _Sammy_ …” 

 Dean’s hands were in his hair, now, not clutching, just running through it, fingers gently massaging his scalp, while Sam mapped his brother's skin with his lips,  tracing   the strong line of his jaw and Dean's taste was, as always, intoxicating.

_Mine_ …it was his hands saying it, as they explored Dean’s body, helping him out of his clothes, allowing him to do the same.

_Mine:_ warm skin against skin, Dean’s soft pants, his taste surrounding him; lips bruising, tongues dueling, playing; nails scraping.

Softness, hardness, curves and planes, scars he licked, mapped, memorized.

_Mine…_ it was his body saying it, screaming it, as they both came up for air, breaking a kiss and Dean’s gazze locked with his and the trust, the love in them made him clench his jaws in anger and pride.

“What do you want,  _Sammy_?” Dean panted, his hips moving against his, seeking friction.

Sam’s answer was another kiss, as his hand went to trace the lines of Dean’s tattoo and he could hear ruffling of feathers, Castiel’s presence stronger for a moment. “You. Us.” He eventually said, his face just inches away from Dean’s, their legs twined, their bodies rocking together, the darkness in the room warm and inviting, for once.

“Gotcha…” Dean replied, attempting a cocky grin…but Sam could feel Dean’s heartbeat under his fingertips, drumming almost frantically, even as his hands were now running up and down his back, scattering goosebumps and fire with his touch.

They moved together: intimate, familiar, gestures; lines blurred, forgotten. Sam kissed Dean; he kissed the bitterness and the betrayal away, inch by inch; he kissed the bone deep weariness that sometimes felt like a shroud around Dean, teasing him with his lips, teeth and tongue…because they were not in a hurry, not that night.

It wasn’t just about sex  or about getting off. It wasn’t even about comfort in that moment…or Castiel, as much as Sam could still feel the angel’s presence. It was about them, about destiny and fights bigger than them…and how they were always smack in the middle of them.

It was Sam, rolling them so that Dean was above him, his legs wrapped around  the older man’s waist, his skin on fire with arousal, his heart drumming in his ears.

It was Dean, his lips, his talented fingers focusing on him and him only.

It was their breaths, taste and sweat mingling. It was inevitable, as much as they had once fought it, as much as they had tried to ignore it.

And it was about that visceral, almost primeval need to mark Dean, to make everyone: heaven and  hell, angels, demons and everything in between see,  _know_  that Dean was his and his alone.

That need was still there, burning Sam to the core, prompting him to touch Dean, to taste his skin, salty with sweat  and passion, until he drew blood, only to lick it away.

It was them, joined at their core, when Dean eventually entered him, pleasure throbbing, engulfing them. Dean’s eyes were fixed on him, barriers and layers down, feelings crystal clear on the surface. Neither of them moved for a moment, although Sam could feel Dean trembling with the effort not to, then Sam rocked his hips, cradling Dean’s face in his hands.

He didn’t speak, he didn’t say a word and neither did Dean, they didn’t need to. Dean closed his eyes for a second and Sam loved seeing Dean like that; slowly but surely letting go, letting himself be  _his…_ and believing it. Even if for a few moments. 

“Look at me,” Sam  said, and his voice came out hoarse, a plea and a command, the need they both felt and the heat, the passion clear in his voice and the way Dean answered to it, his eyes fluttering open, fixing on him, his lips swollen with their bruising kisses, his whole body enveloping him was almost enough to send Sam over the edge.

“Not yet!” Dean said against his lips, as always hyperaware of everything about him. He was moving inside of him and Sam tilted his head on a side, to give him better access, moaning into his mouth, as his blunt nails scratched Dean’s back, eliciting a moan in response from Dean.

He loved Dean’s taste, the way he moved, how he knew exactly what he needed, when he needed. He loved that Dean knew him, read him like an open book, knew what drove him wild.

It had always been like that, even the first time, after they had stopped pretending, after it had become impossible to ignore the fact that they were fucked up, but they were fucked up together.

They kept quiet, low pants and sighs, that were going straight to his cock, as Dean movements grew with intensity and pleasure was pooling inside of him, coiling in his spine.

He moved his hand, maybe to touch Dean, or maybe to touch his own body, he wasn't sure, he would never know, because Dean grabbed his wrist and pinned it above his head, eyes dark with pleasure, his cock throbbing inside of him, hitting his prostrate, sparks of arousal setting his body alight, Dean's lips and tongue swallowing his moans.

"Sammy..." Dean panted. And it was  _everything:_ reverent, possessive, a plea. It was  _I love you_  and  _you're mine._

It was all it took for Sam to come undone; he shuddered, inside the cocoon of Dean's arms, pleasure so intense that it skimmed on pain, his heels digging in Dean’s back, as he came, untouched, spilling between their bodies, Dean kissing him, taking his breath away, right before he followed him, his own pleasure hot and throbbing inside of him.

And if it  was damnation he didn’t care, he couldn’t bring himself to.

It didn’t matter.

Later, as sleep seeped through his body, still tingling with aftershocks, he touched his neck, grazing   the marks Dean had left during their lovemaking; Dean who was sprawled on the bed, their legs twined, his face hidden in the pillow…

He had gotten it all wrong, he realized. He had meant to mark Dean, to let everything and everyone know, see…in the end, though, it had been Dean who had claimed him, Dean who had  marked him, had reminded him, once again that he belonged to him…and him alone. Because hell couldn’t have him, not any more.

Because he was Dean’s as much as Dean was _his._

And if Castiel had seen it, felt it, he would know. He would know that he’d hurt Dean again over his dead body.

A breath, the hair on his arms stood up as Castiel finally left.

He would know that he would protect Dean, wall or not, hell or not. Because if it was damnation, if it was a sin, Sam knew hell, he wasn’t afraid of it. Not if it meant being with Dean.

~fin

 

 

 


End file.
